


Keys to the Kingdom

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, One Shot, Season/Series 02, Trust, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 19:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16393895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: A tie as a makeshift blindfold just means that it's another midnight decision.





	Keys to the Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> A belated birthday present for my girl. xo There's another coming your way, baby.

How many times will this continue?

Summoned during the late hours of the night, Deputy Governor Vera Bennett finds herself in a familiar setting. A knock grants her entry along with the husky yet amicable intonation of ‘ come in. ‘ Short, sweet, and to the point, Vera finds herself craving more. Strung along for the anticipatory high, she briskly walks past the threshold. Keys to the kingdom swing and sing on a well-adjusted utility belt. It compliments her narrow angles with curves in all the right places.

The act speaks to the mundane: when their career in corrections slows to a crawl and is familiar, intimate in its repetition. However, neither the worshipper nor the worshipped are here to discuss the daily minutiae. A brandished flick of the wrist gestures past the unoccupied desk. The glowing monitor dies.

“Hello, Vera,” comes the breathy whisper oozing sensuality and tempting a heat like no other.

_Vee-rah._

She hears that in her dreams and **more**.

Dual screens slumber in technological oblivion. Cleaned of toxins and rid of drug peddling, the Fixer maintains her legacy. Governor Ferguson’s manipulations over Bea Smith and Francesca Doyle can wait another day. This particular debrief intends to keep Vera under her wing. Credit is given where it’s due; her Deputy has passed the test with flying colors and now it’s time to reap the rewards.

With a grand sweeping gesture, Joan crooks her finger, the bun taut and pulling at her scalp as the day reaches its iron end. Tonight, she plans to do her handmaid a great service. God detaches from the CCTV and stands tall, a monolith of perfect order.

While seemingly fragile, there’s strength to Vera’s character. With the seed planted, her corruption slowly spreads. Flourishing in her confidence under Joan’s tutelage, she approaches the dark fire that burns brighter, a woman turned Hades given life’s cruel hand. The utility belt chimes, a pair of cuffs singing and banging with each bold step forward.

“Guv’na. You called and I came,” Deputy insists, a seductive lilt to her voice a presumable figment of Joan’s imagination.

“Indeed,” she counters with a quirk of her legs, nostrils flared in mild annoyance despite the building ache. “Come here.”

At the top of the prison hierarchy, this is not an extension of rank, but an unholy offering. Mistress Machiavelli has an ulterior motive.

She beckons to her, temptation lurking just around the corner. Joan gestures to her leather throne, fingers grazing the top. A twisted dance full of bated breath and anticipation follows. The little, bleating lamb takes a seat and willingly enters a place called Hell (conceived by others). In delight, she wriggles in the seat, frail hands grip the armrests though veins protrude.

“Feel what I feel,” the Governor croons. She slinks and she sleuths, retreating to the far corner of the room. Curiosity compels Vera to tilt her head as she watches. “For your excepTional service, you will be rewarded.”

This Leviathan of Praise administers a healthy dose of poison. Despite all her girlish fantasies, Joan’s distance reminds Vera of a phantom: ever present, but mindfully distant. Kept under her spell, a devotee in every sense, Deputy pines for what’s lost: the warmth, the closeness, the familiarity of it all.

“Guv’na… Come back, please.”

Quiet pleas feed the animal within. A master of repression, Joan clenches her jaw. Steels her nerves. Wills for the ball to fall in her court.

“Ah, ah. Savor your current position as it’s a temporary one... Unless you continue to excel.”

Joan tuts. Ever the predator, she draws closer. Perched on the edge of the desk, one lithe leg folds over the next. Calculated hands fall into her lap. How easy it is to close in on the kill.

Hyper-focused in the moment, eagerness inspires forwardness. Vera smiles through the veil of nerves. With an unspoken caress, she exudes confidence, her touch grazing pleated, ironed trousers. Bowing her head, Judas bestows a kiss to her curved, ivory knuckles, the skin smooth beneath her pursed mouth. She feels one hell of a woman stir. Old habits cause her to gnaw on her bottom lip, chapped and swollen.

“Close your eyes,” Miss Ferguson commands, reigning champion as the grand authority.

Irresistibly so, she falls into the honeyed trap. Lashes flutter. Eyes squeeze shut. Darkness follows. A warm buzzing sensation courses through her svelte body.

In a ceremonious gesture, the Governor loosens her tie by the knot. Silk frees itself from the starched, pressed collar. No warning or cautionary tale accompanies sudden action. A blindfold now hides wide, blue eyes. The veil of darkness comes down, a knot secured the piece in place. Shocked, Vera emits a faint gasp. Seduced by the snake charmer herself, a slight flinch leads to a relaxed state. She trusts blindly, her vision obscured, her breath shallow.

A loyal follower takes Iustitia’s stance.

“I trust you, Guv’na.”

Though her throat tightens, she parrots her conditioning. The fabric nags at her skin, scratches and itches, because it doesn't belong. Blood rushes in her skull, thunderously pounding against her ears. Fear, while minute, lodges itself between heart and lungs, ebbing into a warm, pleasurable ache between the legs.

“Good girl,” the Governor croons, low and smoky and just as toxic.

Satisfied that she still holds dominion, Joan hovers above her disciple, an impervious tower of correction. A steady palm rests atop Vera’s chest, pressing against the tailored jacket. Fingers splay. It's a privilege to feel these hands bare. Under the surface, feels the hummingbird heart flutter and stir. The hand that feeds (bleeds, bruises, coddles) slithers lower past the polished, gleaming buttons. Her rounded chin settles on Vera’s crown.

Minor shock fizzles and fades. Revelation slams against her ribcage: this is the closest she’s ever been to Joan. Her possessive winter embrace warms the quivering doe, as if frost bite begins to take effect. Trembling thighs attest to how she yearns for _more_. That tantalizing electric touch seems to skirt everywhere when, in reality, the path remains steadfast. Straight and narrow.

“Hush.”

She demands absolute obedience, glossy lips pursed against the shell of her devotee’s ear. She inhales deeply, her disciple’s scent an intoxicant, nose nudging her temple and savoring the ocean scorned with a floral undertone. A rose blooms in large, steady hands that intend to keep her.

Silenced, she quells the urge to whine. With minimal sound secreted, Koschei the Damned Deathless One enjoys the silence. Her pale cheek presses against Vera’s: cold clamminess against kind warmth, a constant state of tension. Joan fights this strange compulsion to kneel before Vera – to drink her in like communion.

Given her predicament, Vera squirms. She holds her breath until her longs swear that they’ll burst.

God, that reverent hand creeps lower and lower…


End file.
